


With Wolves

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Amnesia, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Sam leaves for Stanford, you walk out the door and drive all the way to Tennessee before you just can’t take it any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Wolves

**WITH WOLVES**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Dean/OMC; Sam/Dean; John/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; amnesia; non-consenual sex; abuse

  
The day Sam leaves for Stanford, you walk out the door and drive all the way to Tennessee before you just can’t take it any longer. This is when you still remember. This is before you forget. Your dad calls your cell twice, doesn’t leave messages, but you can imagine his stubble scratching against the receiver, his whiskey breath, the white-knuckled grip on the phone. You can imagine the words he wants to say, the ones that never make it past his lips, the ones that have never reached your ears.

You can imagine his voice, soft, raw, as he begs you to come back, just once, just this one time, because he can’t lose another son like this, because he can’t go on without his boys. Because he’ll never make it on his own like this, abandoned like this.

Because you just can’t leave him.

***

You wake up naked in an abandoned parking lot, tucked between dirty white lines, and the doctors tell you that it could be amnesia, it could be posttraumatic stress, but you don’t remember a goddamn thing. They ask you your name and they ask you where you live and what year you were born, but you only look at them with blank stares, your throat dry, your eyes tired. They administer tests and give you pills and you sleep for days in the hospital, wrapped in starchy white blankets, dreaming of nothing.

When you close your eyes, you taste ash and gunpowder and blood, but the doctors tell you not to worry, tell you to let the memories come back on their own, tell you not to force it.

You don’t say, “What if I don’t want to remember?”

You don’t say, “What if I shouldn’t?”

***

They let you stay in the psych ward at the hospital in Memphis, let you walk around and touch things you think you can remember, book, bed, blanket, let you watch patients stream in and out and every once in a while ask, “Remember them?”

“Is this your mom?”

“Is this your dad?”

You leaf through books with boy’s names and make a list of the ones you think sound familiar, close your eyes and run your finger down and down and stop at the first one that feels right, and when you open them you think, “Yes.”

You think, “Sam.”

***

The police come in and check on you every week or two, tell you with their solemn faces, their solemn hands, that they’ve been searching everywhere, but they still have no leads. Nobody’s come forward or put out a missing person’s report and your fingerprints have come back clean, and your blood and DNA have all been cleared.

The nurses look at you with sad eyes, but you shrug and say, “Guess I don’t have any family.”

Say, “Guess no one’s really looking for me.”

And the police retreat with exasperation, and the nurses bury themselves in helping you, giving you extra helpings of the cafeteria food, giving you the softest blankets straight from the industrial dryer, giggling when you smile and wink at them and say, “Thanks,” in this soft Midwestern drawl.

The doctors are all dry hands and whiskey-laden dusty voices, and they bring up this feeling in your chest, this feeling like love or warmth or utter devotion, this feeling like you’d do anything for them, so it’s not a big surprise when you find yourself pressed face first against the bookshelf in one of the offices, Dr. Carter’s hands sliding down your hospital pants.

You say, “Oh.”

And, Dr. Carter’s lips and teeth and tongue on the back of your neck, his strong grip on your hips, his chest solid against your back, you say, “Oh, Dad.”

And Dr. Carter says, “I think we’ve had a break through.”

***

You like to walk around the hospital at night. Like to watch the people sleeping, the slow in and out of every breath, the soft drip of the IV lines, the shiny linoleum floor squeaking underneath your bare feet, you like to walk up and down the halls and you feel this emptiness in your chest, like something’s missing, like all this time you’re supposed to be searching for something, but you just can’t remember what.

You dream of ghosts and demons and vampires, and when you wake up, the doctors tell you it was only a nightmare, only a shallow unconscious representation of some past life that you can’t remember right now, that’s been buried so deep you’ve forgotten how to uncover it. When you wake up and your mind is full of rock salt and shotguns and wooden crosses, holy water, Latin, the doctors tell you that sometimes memories are manifested through symbols in dreams, sometimes the only way to understand it is to just let it come, just let it run its course, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something big here, like you might just be able to find out who you are.

The doctors say, “Be patient,” but even you know, without your past, without your memories, even you know that patience isn’t your strong suit.

***

The doctors and nurses and police officers start calling you Sam after you tell them that John Doe just isn’t cutting it. This name you know, this name comes to you in your dreams, in your thoughts, wetting your tongue with this rich taste of familiarity, and it’s the only name that makes you feel this way, so it’s the only name you feel comfortable using. One of the nurses smiles at you with all her teeth, pinches the corner of your mouth, and tells you that you look just like a Sam, that it suits you.

***

They give you dictionaries and let you leaf through each page, stopping at words you think you might know, mother, father, brother, demon, stopping at words that pull this invisible string tight in your belly. They give you dictionaries and teach you things you think you might have forgotten, show you pictures of sunsets and forests and buildings, crowded subway trains, vast miles of ocean, show you these things and say, “Familiar now?”

“How about now?”

They give you maps and let you flip through them wildly, learning Interstate numbers and names of cities and towns, the bends of old country back roads, let you memorize the lines of streets with your finger, and you always seem to come back to Kansas, and they say, “Maybe that’s where you’re from.”

“Maybe you used to live there.”

And, suddenly, you miss driving. You can’t remember how to drive, can’t remember the way to shift gears or turn on the engine, but you can feel the hard leather of the steering wheel beneath your grip, you can feel the wind in your hair through the small crack of the window. You can remember pressing the gas pedal hard and you can remember the sound the engine makes when you rev it, and you can remember the smell of exhaust, the laughter of someone beside you in the passenger seat, his hands idling gently on your thigh. You can remember warmth and the smell of whiskey and hair tickling your cheek and skin against yours, calloused and unshaven.

You can remember what love tastes like.

***

The first time you meet Billy, he has bandages wrapped around his wrists so tight, it looks like his hands would fall off if he unwrapped them. He’s small and thin and his eyes are bright blue, like the sky in those pictures the doctors show you, like the sky with clouds and birds and peace. He smiles bright, white teeth and pink lips, smiles and waves with his hands, bandages peeking out of his sleeves. You’ve caught him smoking in the bathroom, he doesn’t care.

He says, “Hi.”

You say, “I’m sorry.”

You say, “Do I know you?”

***

Billy says, “I used to work here,” motions to the expanse of eggshell white halls, squeaky linoleum, doctors and nurses and stethoscopes and gurneys. You’re both sitting in your bed, blanket tucked around your thin pajamas, huddled together as Billy talks and talks and talks.

Billy says, “I used to be a nurse.”

Billy says, “I used to go to medical school.”

Billy says, “I almost got a perfect on the MCATS.”

His fingers picking at the white gauze on his wrists, picking at the threads in the blanket, and he never looks at you, just mumbles down at his knees. You know he wants to be able to say, “I am,” but there is some sort of finality in his voice, like it’s a past life he’s referring to, like it’s someone else entirely.

You say, “I don’t know what I used to be,” but you’re not sure that it helps.

You say, “I don’t know who I am,” but you’re not sure Billy’s even listening.

***

You like reading the Bible. You like the sound of the words against your tongue. You like the stories, you like the triumph of good over evil, you like the mystery and magic, you like the fact that there’s something out there, something more, something big.

You sit in the chapel at the hospital and you pray to something you’re not quite sure you believe in, something you’re not quite sure you ever believed in, and you ask forgiveness for whatever took away your memory, you ask for guidance and you ask for relief from this anxiety, this not knowing.

You sit and you pray and you remember blood and knives and ash in your mouth, strong hands over yours as you aim a shotgun, as you feel the cold barrel against your fingers, as you feel the trigger rigid under your touch, this voice in your ear, “This way, like this,” and the impact on the target a few yards away, the sound of splintering wood.

This voice in your ear, “Just like that.”

This voice, “Perfect.”

You sit and you pray and your hands tremble, but you can still feel the weight of the shotgun, you can still feel the pride that swelled in your belly, the way you laughed and smiled, these strong arms around you, this voice so close. And you know someone’s out there, you know someone’s looking for you, because you can’t have these feelings and be so utterly alone in this world, be so forgettable.

You can’t have feelings like this and not have somebody who loves you.

***

Billy kisses you the night you decide to leave. Takes you in to one of the private bathrooms and locks the door, pushing you against the wall, flipping the light switch off. He says, “I just wanted to give you something to remember me by.”

He says, “I just wanted you to have some fun before you left.”

He runs his tongue across your bottom lip, his hands on either side of your head, white bandages gleaming in your peripheral vision as your eyes adjust to the darkness, to Billy’s mouth on yours, his lips and teeth, his nose bumping against your cheek.

He says, “I hope you don’t mind.”

His right hand running down the front of your shirt, pulling at the elastic waistband of your hospital pants, tucking his fingers inside, down, stroking your flesh. You want to say, “Don’t worry.”

You want to say, “I’m kind of used to it by now.”

Dr. Carter, Billy, what might have been your father, strong hands and whiskey breath, dusty dark voice in your ear, what might have been your life before you forgot, before you just couldn’t remember anymore. You want to say, “Don’t worry.”

You want to say, “A person can’t hold grudges if they’re gonna forget about them.” Memories slipping like sand through your fingers, maybe you like this feeling, maybe you want this, maybe this is just who you are. Maybe you’ve always been like this and you’ve just forgotten, maybe you’ve always had these feelings and you just can’t remember.

You want to say, “Don’t worry.”

You want to say, “I think I like it.”

But Billy steals your breath away with his kiss.

***

After Billy teaches you how to drive again, teaches you how to put the keys in to the ignition and turn it the right way, how to shift the gears into drive, into park, how to stop at red, go at green, well, you steal one of the nurses’ keys from her desk and take it out to the parking lot, aiming the button at every car. Hers is an old Ford, something forgettable, something nondescript, and your mind is telling you good, your mind is telling you that this is perfect, that once you start driving, you’re gonna have a window of about a couple hours until you can change plates, allude detection. Your mind’s telling you that this is the only way you’ll ever be able to find your family again, whoever they are, wherever they are.

You pack up a bag of everything that’s been given to you, the dictionaries, the Bible, the old hand-me-downs from the church clothing drive, the little bit of money, all the maps that you memorized, your finger tracing and retracing every road from Tennessee to Kansas, because there’s something there, you know. There’s something about it, and you just need to see for yourself. You leave your hospital clothes folded neatly on the bed, steal a piece of paper from one of the other patients, and write “Thank you” in big letters, sign it Sam, because that’s the only name you’ll ever want to be known as, as long as you can’t remember, as long as you still forget everything.

You kiss Billy goodbye, and you sneak out the front door, and you never look back.

***

It’s only two states to Kansas, but you take back roads instead of highways, pause at towns that might look familiar, stay in old motels because you feel like you’ve done this before, this wandering, and you want to savor every single minute of it. You siphon gas to save money, steal tips that have been left on tables and counters, count out change for coffee in quarters, smile sharply when the waitresses slip an extra short stack on your plate, an extra sausage link, smile and flirt and pretend that all of this is just normal to you, because maybe it is, maybe it could have been once.

You spend the nights in your room imagining touches and tastes and smells that are just beyond your grasp, hands without faces, hands that slide themselves over your chest and down your back, hands that leave bruises they press so hard. You imagine mouths against yours, against your face, your hips and thighs, you imagine the smell of whiskey and musk and something else, paper and ink and old books, stale against your tongue.

You imagine blood and guns and knives and this, this feeling in the pit of your stomach, flipping over and over, waiting for those hands again, waiting for those mouths. You imagine and you let your hand fill in that gap, running fingers down from your chest to the button of your jeans, from your belly button to sliding down the zipper. You imagine and you bite your lip raw and bloody when you come, holding in screams that you never want to let go of.

***

It’s funny, but the day you meet Dean, well, it’s kind of an accident.

***

You’re getting closer to Kansas with each day, this pull in your stomach like you’re tied to a string that stops somewhere where you’ll find answers, somewhere where this whole thing started, your life, your memories. Somewhere where your family will greet you with open arms, whoever they are, whatever they look like, whatever’s happened to you to make you forget.

You go through Arkansas and you go through Oklahoma, and you’re rounding your way through Tulsa, almost there, almost home, when, suddenly, it’s there, in the back of your throat, like an itch you can’t scratch, like something that’s stuck, and you can’t speak and you can’t breathe, and you watch your hands jerk the steering wheel to the side, on to the shoulder. It’s there, like something you can’t let go of, and you can’t even think, your mind full of fire and heat and blood, the sounds of screams in the dark, the sound of your father’s voice in your ear, the weight of your brother against your chest, and you’re thinking, “Oh my god.”

And you’re thinking, “Oh my god.”

Your nose is running and your eyes are filling up with tears, and you can’t roll down the window fast enough, let the cool breeze wash over your body, sweating from that heat of the fire, your hands and neck and face warm.

And you’re thinking, “Oh my god,” your head filled with so much fire, so much ash and pain, and the image of your mother, her blonde hair tickling your cheek right before bedtime, your baby brother, your father’s strong arms cradling you to his chest. The image of your mother’s body, the heat of the fire licking it clean, your brother crying, and it’s crawling up your throat, this panic, it’s crawling towards your mouth, and you can’t ever imagine being this scared, you can’t ever imagine being this afraid, your hands clawing at your neck.

And you’re thinking, “Oh my god,” the image of your house, the sound of sirens in the air, your father pulling you against him, you and your brother’s little body still clutched in your arms, and you’re thinking, “Family.”

And you’re thinking, “Love.”

When you can finally breathe again, letting your chest relax, letting your heartbeat return to its normal rhythm, your hands gripping white on the steering wheel, the wind running fingers through your hair from the open window, the sound of the cars passing you on the road, when you finally calm down, you still don’t know who you are. But you know now that you have a family, the image of your father and his hands on you, the image of your baby brother in your arms. You have a family and you have a home, and once you get there, well, they can fill in the rest.

And you’re thinking, “Home.”

And, your hands turning the wheel back to the road, heading north, heading for Kansas, you’re thinking, “Lawrence.”

***

It takes you three trips around Lawrence before you find a motel, only because you pass each street looking for names, looking for faces that you might recognize, children playing baseball, men mowing lawns, women sunning themselves out in the front yard. Only because the only things you know about Lawrence are sounds of screams and smells of fire and ash and blood, bright yellow eyes swimming in flames.

You check in to room thirty-two, asking yourself, “Does this look familiar?” as you open the door to twin beds and cheap, dry wallpaper cracking at the seems. You pace the room five, maybe six times, asking yourself, “Have I been here before?” peeking out the curtains, opening the mini bar, taking out each bottle to soothe away the flushed, sweaty heat of your palms.

Looking in the mirror, an unfamiliar face looms back, dark hair, green eyes, stubble that’s long past being a five o’clock shadow, and you guess it’s hard to know where you’re from if you can’t even remember what you look like. You guess it’s hard to know who you are if you can’t even remember your name.

You practice saying “Home” in the mirror until your throat runs dry, until you tell yourself that you need a drink.

***

It’s funny, but it’s kind of like he’s sitting there waiting for you.

***

You sit on a stool one seat over from a lanky college student, maybe three or four years younger than you, tall, muscled, hazel eyes that glance over, sweep across your face, and you think, “Do I know you?”

You think, “Do I know this place?”

The bartender doesn’t ask for ID, which is good because you’d have nothing to give him, no name, no age, no address, and you stare long in to your shot of whiskey before you down it quick, wincing at the sharp taste on your tongue. Nobody rushes forward to talk to you, to envelop you in a warm embrace, to tell you your life story, but you can’t say that you weren’t at least half hoping somebody would, because all you’ve got is yourself, and you can’t start lying now.

The boy beside you keeps giving you fleeting looks, like maybe you have some answers for him, keeps looking down at his beer and then back up at you, like maybe he thinks you’re familiar, like maybe he knows you, and you want to say, “Please.”

You want to say, “Please tell me who I am,” but you can’t start going crazy now, not after all you’ve been through.

The boy beside you says, “Hey.”

And you want to say, “Do you know me?”

You want to say, “Can you tell me who I am?” but the words won’t come out, won’t pass your lips. You turn to him, look him over, and it’s like something’s there, it’s like something’s on the tip of your tongue, like maybe he could’ve known you in your past life, before all of this, before you forgot. Like maybe he could’ve known you, known your story, before that day you woke up in the parking lot, before everything started over again, started fresh.

The boy says, “Hey, what’s your name?”

And you want to say, “I wish I could tell you.”

But you say, “Sam,” instead. It’s the closest thing to what might be your own, it’s the most familiar you’ve ever been, besides the smell of fire, besides the sounds of screams. It’s the most comfortable you’ve ever been.

The boy nods, this look in his eyes like he might know something, like this is some cruel trick, some kind of twisted déjà vu. And he smiles and holds out his hand.

“Dean,” he says, and his palm is warm against your own.

***

Dean says, “I’m looking for my brother.”

Dean says, “He’s been gone for a while, got lost somewhere, I think.”

You’re on your fourth shot, your second beer, and everything’s getting kind of fuzzy around the edges, your belly coiled tight like it’s not used to this kind of punishment, you here tracing Dean’s mouth with your eyes, wanting so badly to touch him. You want to blame it on the alcohol, you want to blame it on your sluggish thoughts, your slurred speech, but what if this is just your true nature right here, what if this is just your real life, just who you are?

Dean says, “I came here because I figured he’d eventually come back home.”

Dean says, “I just want him back.”

You want to say, “He’s lucky.”

You want to say, “He should be glad he has family like you,” but you order another shot instead, down it like water this time, let it slide easy down your throat, because you want this so bad you can feel it, you can taste it. A brother, a father, a family, anyone who would give up everything to look for you, anyone who would hurt this bad if you went missing one day.

Dean takes a sip of his beer, long, drawn out, eyes still on you. Your heart is beating fast, your lips are dry, and you just want so badly to touch his skin, anywhere, any kind of contact, because there’s just something so familiar about him, something so perfect, and you want it all around you, you want it touching you.

Dean says, “Hey.”

Dean says, “Let’s go back to your place.”

And you say, “Okay.”

***

Dean’s mouth is on yours the second you close the door, sweeping broad across your cheek, your neck, your collarbone. You’re pushed against the lock, the doorknob, but you hardly care, lifting up your chin and letting out a loud moan, and this is something you’ve been wanting to do all night, this is something you’ve been picturing in your head for hours. Dean’s mouth on yours, your jaw, his hands are all over you, and you’re thumbing open your jeans, thumbing open his, your hand sliding down underneath his boxers, wanting more, wanting your skin on his.

He’s kissing every part of you, his fingers unbuttoning your shirt, and you’re thinking, “This is it,” this is what you want, because family might be everything, but you don’t know if it’d be able to give you this, this feeling in your chest, your stomach, this feeling like you’re going to explode.

Family might be everything, but you’re not sure it’d be able to give you this, Dean sliding his hands over your chest, breathing soft against your chin, kissing your mouth until it swells, your hand moving past cloth, palming him beneath his jeans, moving fast. Dean letting his head fall into the crook of your neck, breathing harder, breathing rough against your skin, and he mumbles something, something you can’t quite catch.

And you say, “What?” Your voice breathless, quiet in Dean’s hair.

And Dean says, “Is this familiar?”

And you say, “What?” your hand stilling, your breath holding, this flip in your stomach like you might just throw up.

And Dean says, “Do you remember now?”

***

Dean’s real name is Sam, he says, this name you’ve always been so comfortable using because it’s so familiar to you, like your own, like a second skin. This name that’s always come to mind whenever you close your eyes at night.

Your name is Dean Winchester.

You’re from Lawrence, Kansas, he says, paces around the little motel room as you sit on the bed, exhausted from all of this, the alcohol, the sex, these truths, everything. You’re twenty-two, he says, your mother died when you were little, you never went to college, you love women and rock ‘n’ roll and whiskey and fast cars, and this man in front of you, this boy, well, he’s your brother.

You swallow hard and say, “I might not be able to remember anything, but I’m pretty sure what we just did was anything but brotherly.”

And Sam grimaces, looks away from you. “Yeah,” he says.

Your father’s in Memphis, he says, because he hacked into the GPS for your phone, found a trace there before it went dead. Sam stayed because he knew you’d come back one of these days, knew you’d come back home. His father, your father, called right before Sam found himself in the bar, said he’d found your car, an old ’67 Chevy Impala, said he’d found it in a parking lot with your clothes, your empty wallet, your hidden weapons cache. Said it wasn’t looking too good for you.

Sam had gone straight to the bar, was there for an hour before you came waltzing in. “Like you’ve never seen me before in your life,” he says, and, really, that’s because you haven’t. For as long as you can remember, anyway.

“The guns?” you ask, looking at your hands, his feet, looking at anywhere but Sam’s face.

“We’re…hunters,” he says, careful words, careful voice, and you watch his hands as he wants to touch you, as he pulls himself back. “There are things out there that we…that we hunt.”

He swallows hard. “We help people, most of the time.”

You want to say, “Most?” but you bite your lip instead, and you know there’s something there, something more, something bigger. You know there’s something you just can’t quite reach.

Sam says, “I called Dad in the bar, he should be here in a day or so.”

You want to say, “Did he miss me?”

You want to say, “Did you?” but everything’s so careful, everything’s so fragile right now, you don’t know what it’ll take to break it.

Sam says, “Dean,” and he goes to sit next to you on the bed, his thigh touching yours, your shirt still unbuttoned, your jeans still unzipped, and you want him to touch you so bad, you want him to tell you he loves you, even if you’ve never heard him say it before, even if you can’t remember him or your father or this life, even if this feels like you’re underwater right now, like you’re so out of touch. You want him to bring back your memories.

Sam says, “Dean,” and you can feel it, the tears welling up, this frustration deep inside your chest, this feeling like you figured everything would come back if only you had a family again, if only you could find them and they would still love you.

Sam says, “Do you remember any of this?”

Sam says, “Is any of it coming back now?”

And you want to say, “Yes.”

You want to say, “I remember. I remember everything,” but the tears slipping down your cheeks, Sam’s hand on your own, you can’t lie right now to save your life. Sam’s arm around your shoulders as you pull in ragged breaths, as you let everything go, you want to say, “Yes.”

You want to say, “I remember you,” but, Sam’s arms on you, this frustration, this hurt, this exhaustion, you know now that nothing will ever bring your memories back.

You know now that your old life is gone forever.

***

Your father comes for you while you’re asleep. Sam had taken off your shirt, your shoes, your pants, laid you down in the bed, pulled the covers over your shoulders, and ran fingers through your hair until exhaustion took over. Sam hadn’t spoken, but the words were there just the same: You’re broken now, you’re broken, but we’ll fix you, we’ll get you better, we’ll save you, cross my heart and hope to die.

Sam hadn’t spoken, but you already knew how this was going to end.

Your father comes for you and he’s everything you couldn’t put your finger on, whiskey voice, musky smell, warm hands when he touches you, just a sweep of his palm across the back of your head, his sigh of relief, Sam standing awkwardly by the door. He’s everything you’ve wanted to remember, everything you couldn’t.

Your father says, “You’re home now, son.”

Your father says, “You’re home now, Dean,” and you want to believe him so badly you can taste it in the back of your throat, this taste of fire and ash and blood.

***

Sam says, “I dropped out of school.”

Sam says, “Even if you hadn’t have gone missing,” his tongue swiping his bottom lip, his face worried and raw, his arms tucked around his knees, he says, “I would’ve dropped out, anyway.”

Sam says, “It wasn’t right.”

You want to say, “Why did you leave in the first place?” but Sam will look at you with those hurt eyes, like you’ve done something wrong by not remembering, and your father will shy away and pretend to be in the middle of something, and everyone just wants to forget, to put this all behind them. Everyone just wants to move on.

You want to say, “Why did you leave me?” but you’re the only one who wants to remember here, you’re the only one who wants to relive this pain.

Sam says, “I couldn’t leave you two behind.”

Sam says, “I couldn’t just leave you,” but, even if you can’t remember everything, you both know that he’s lying. Even if you can’t remember anything, you both know that’s not the real reason he came back.

You want to say, “I missed you,” but you’ll never know if that’s true.

***

Your father teaches you how to shoot again, teaches you stories of demons and monsters, tells you of your mother, beautiful and alive, but he can’t make you remember, and that’s the only thing you could ever want, the sights and sounds and smells, the way Sam tasted when you first kissed him, the way your mother’s hands felt as she cradled you to her.

Sam says they’re getting closer to the truth, says they’re gonna find out what happened and they’re gonna undo whatever was done. Sam says he’ll fix you, he’ll make you better, you just wait, you just keep trying to remember, okay?

You meet a man named Bobby, only it’s not for the first time, you can tell by the way he’s unsure of you, the way he’s careful with his words, with how he talks to you, how he uses your name. You meet Bobby and he helps your father and Sam look through stacks and stacks of books, looking for curses or spells or something that that, something you never thought could exist. Something you thought was only made-up.

They search for cures and you pray, something that makes your father uncomfortable, you can tell, the way he clears his throat and makes his way out of the room whenever you bring it up, your tattered Bible from the hospital, your faith in God. The way your father takes another drink of whiskey and goes to practice his shooting out in the back of Bobby’s house, aims for the beer cans set up in a row on the fence. The way Sam buries himself in books, the way Bobby tries to make himself useful.

Your father teaches you how to swing a knife, how to duck and roll and punch, teaches you about Latin and rock salt and holy water, shows you his journal, each page with the monsters you’ve encountered, the demons you’ve sent back to Hell. Your father teaches you how to be a hunter, teaches you how to feel alive, the cold metal of the shotgun in your hands, the power in your fingers as you pull the trigger. Your father teaches you how to be what you were.

Sam says, “See?”

Sam says, “It’s not so bad, is it?”

You can’t remember if you ever thought it was.

***

Your father says, “Can we just get back to the way it used to be?” His hand warm through your jeans, his mouth wet, his voice dry, and Sam’s in the other motel room, listening to his headphones so loud, you think you can hear the trembling bass.

Your father says, “Can we just pretend you never forgot?”

And you want to say, “Yes,” so bad, your skin aching at his touch, your back arching, your breath shallow, and you want to tell him that you remember everything, and that it’s all there, and that it’s all come back to you, all these feelings. And you want to tell him that you remember and that you’ll never forget again, his hands, your mouth, his breath tickling your neck when he exhales.

Your father says, “Please, Dean.”

Your father says, “Just this once?”

And you want to say, “Yes,” and you want him to kiss you and you want his skin against yours, but you can’t stop the tears in your eyes, you can’t stop your trembling mouth, your quiet gasps for air.

Your father says, “Please?”

***

It’s funny, but the answer’s so much simpler than you’d ever want to believe.

***

You tell Sam about the hospital, tell him about Dr. Carter and Billy, tell him because he asks, wants to know where you were, who you were with, what it was like without a memory, without a family, what it was like not knowing who you were. You tell Sam about the chapel and the Bible and the car, the nurses and their sympathy glances, the police who couldn’t find anything. You tell Sam everything you can remember, but only because he can tell you everything you can’t.

Sam kisses you at night, after your father has fallen asleep, kisses you with his mouth, his hands, touches you beneath sheets and cloth, kisses you until your lips swell, until your mouth runs dry. Your hoarse voice, you say, “What was I like?”

You say, “Tell me everything.”

And Sam’s mouth, his hands, he uses words that grace your skin, that have you shivering and gasping for his touch, the taste of him, his smell, that have you curling around him, naked and full of warmth.

Your voice bare against him, you say, “Please, Sam.”

You say, “Help me remember.”

***

It’s funny, but you never would have remembered if your face hadn’t shown up on the six o’clock news.

Sam behind you in the dusty motel room, his hand lingering above your bare shoulder, the sheets twisted upon the bed, clothes on the floor, your father’s papers, his journal, strewn about the table, you’re thinking, “Oh my god,” because there’s a picture of you on the TV and they’re saying tragedy and they’re saying helpless, saying lost, confused.

They’re saying, “Please help,” in big, white, capital letters, and there’s a call number, and there’s Dr. Carter talking politely, calmly in to the camera. And there’s the nurse you stole the car from, her solemn, apologetic face and her solemn, apologetic words telling you that the Lord has already forgiven you, that you’ve already been absolved, if only you could come back, if only you’d let them help you. And there’s Billy in the background, dark eyes and bandaged wrists, smirking sharply as the camera sweeps past him, never lingering too long.

And they’re saying, raped, they’re saying beaten, saying “Three men in custody.”

And you’re thinking, “Oh my god,” because, right there, that’s when you remember, right there, that’s when everything’s been let out and you’re screaming, and you’re crying, Sam trying to touch you, soothe you with his hands, but you’re pushing him away, yelling at him to get his fucking faggot hands away from you. And, right there, that’s when you feel those hands on you, those bruises, the ones the doctors never told you about, the ones the doctors would check over, but never mention. And right there, that’s when you could feel those mouths, that slick wetness of blood, drying red, drying flaky all over your skin, the cold of the pavement beneath you, your tears drying tight across your cheeks.

And you’re thinking, “Oh my god,” and Sam’s hands hovering over you, this shaky, crying mess here, and the heat from Sam’s body as you shiver on the carpet, tucked in to yourself from where you fell to your knees, you barely have time to make it to the bathroom before you puke.

And you’re thinking, “Oh my god.”

***

Sam presses a cool, wet cloth to your forehead after you’ve stopped throwing up, after the crying, after the screaming, after you tell him sorry for calling him a faggot, your swollen lips, your hoarse voice. Sam’s hands soft, warm, against your face, you lean in to his touch, even as you say, “Can’t do it now, can you?”

Even as Sam says, “What?”

And you say, “Fix me.”

***

They don’t have names, but they have faces, sharp-edged and cruel in your sleep, hands shaped like claws, teeth shaped like fangs, and they touch you and they draw blood and you whimper and cry, but there’s nothing you can do to stop them, there’s nothing you can do to save your skin. You wake up with scars you don’t remember having, lines on your stomach that the doctors had known were there, but that you just couldn’t see, not when you couldn’t remember, not when you still forgot everything.

Sam sleeps on the other bed now, your father won’t talk to you anymore, and you’re not sure what’s worse, forgetting you ever had a family or not being able to look the ones you want to remember in the eye.

You want to say, “I’m damaged.”

You want to say, “I’m broken,” but Sam would just look at you teary-eyed and your father would just drink some more of his whiskey, take a shotgun outside, shoot at anything that stood still long enough for him to aim, and you just can’t take this anymore. This unspoken rule, these unspoken truths, this fragility that seems to surround you like the ghost of your memories used to.

You want to say, “I’m still alive,” but even you’re not so sure about that anymore.

***

It’s funny, but you still can’t remember everything.

And if it’s as bad as what you tried to forget, well, maybe you shouldn’t even try anymore.

***

Sam brings home books and pamphlets from the library, each with women on the cover, smiling and happy, each with words in bold like recovery and survival. He leaves them by your bed while you’re asleep, smiles shyly when you confront him about it, tells you that you might just want to look, just a little, that you just might have a few questions that could be answered.

The next time he goes out for food, you throw them all in to the trash.

Your father comes back one night smelling like cigarettes and beer, pool cue chalk smeared on his hands, and he counts out dollar bills into his wallet before he says that you’re moving on. Sam, him, you, you’ve all overstayed your welcome here in Lawrence, gotten a little too attached to these old ghosts, and, anyway, there are some leads on a poltergeist down in Texas that you ought to be checking out, before some more nice, young people go missing.

You don’t have much to pack, but your father gives you a suitcase, anyway, gives you the keys to the Impala and tells you to ride with Sam, to meet him down in San Antonio, because he’s got a few things to take care of before he gets there. And, anyway, your father’s gruff voice, he says it’s time to get you back up in to the saddle, and you don’t need your old man there for that, because you’ll do just fine. His hand just barely touching your shoulder, his mouth close to yours, sloppy, alcohol-stained, he leans forward and you close your eyes, breathe in his smell, try to remember, try to remember, try to remember.

Your father says, “You’ll be just fine, Dean,” and he’s not talking about hunting, anymore, not talking about driving or Sam or anything, and you want so badly for him to kiss you right now, to tell you that he forgives you, that you’re not broken, that everything is perfect, but he pulls back, instead.

“You’ll be just fine.”

***

When you father comes back to Texas with bloodstains on his clothes, not his, you think, not his, bloodstains and missing rounds, when he comes back and disassembles his Beretta right in front of you, cleaning off every surface, well, you think maybe that’s just how your life is. Maybe that’s just how everything goes.

Sam yells and yells until your father finally hits him, a strong backhand across his face that leaves a bruise on his cheek for days and days, until he finally tells Sam that this is how you take care of family here, this is justice and this is retribution and this is what’s goddamn right in this fucked up world. Your father gathering all of his clothes in to a pile, burning them in the back of your motel room, scratching off the serial number of the Beretta, burying all the pieces six feet under in different corners of town, well, you think maybe this is just what being a Winchester is about.

Sam cradling his cheek with his palm, your father strong-jawed and bloody, well, you think maybe this is just everything you’ve been missing.

Maybe this is just your life.

***

And it’s funny, but even without all of your memories, you still know who you are.


End file.
